This melted his smile off faster than acid. A rookie’s mistake his former self never would have made.
Bingo, motherfucker.
I shook my head and took a step forward, so he could see just how much I was enjoying it. Paddy yanked off his oxygen mask and reached toward the nightstand, patting it while keeping his eyes fixed on me. His fingers landed on a soft cigarette pack. He tugged one out and lit it, taking a breath so labored I could actually hear his lungs squeak under the pressure.
“Ah, crap,” he said.
I nodded. Crap, indeed.
“So I was thinking, who’s gonna get all of this assfuck’s money and assets when he dies? You cheated on all your wives, collecting divorces at an impressive rate. Not one of ’em gives two shits you’re dying. No one to take care of you. Send letters. No one to inherit all the hard-earned money you stole from my old man. So I started snooping around, asking people, taking an interest.” I paused as I turned my back to him. “Nobody cared about Paddy, so I wondered if maybe there was someone he cared about.”
Pacing, I folded the handkerchief and tucked it back in my jacket. The scent of cigarette smoke was enough to dilute the reek of death. Besides, I’d gone nose-blind to the stench. I tipped my chin lower so that he could see the amusement flickering in my eyes. “And as you mentioned before, news travels fast. Wife number two had a few details to share about your cheating.”
Paddy’s face collapsed into a heap of wrinkles, like he was one of those shar-pei dogs, and he winced, a sure sign of his inner torture. I was glad I hadn’t pulled out my Glock after all. This was far more entertaining.
“How dare you! I was your father’s best friend. When your girl needed rehab, I hooked you up with the best place in the States.”
I almost laughed out loud. That had ended up being just another disaster.
“Paddy,” I warned.
“Don’t touch her.” His voice shook, after a stretched silence that spoke volumes of his love for her.
“Touch her?” I let the words roll off my tongue lazily, like I was weighing on this option. “I’m not going to stop at touching. This errand boy knows the fucking drill.” I walked over to a painting hanging on his wall, my arms folded behind my back, and scanned it with a playful smile. A cheap print of The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. How ironic. A vision of a woman’s deepest fears.
The painting was covered in glass and reflected Paddy’s face. He bit his lower lip, releasing it slowly as he blinked away what was beginning to look like actual tears. Taking another drag and coughing it out, his eyes narrowed on my back.
“Leave her out of it.”
“You mean, just like you left Sparrow alone?” I rubbed my chin with my finger thoughtfully as I turned to face him.
“Get to the point, asshole. What is it that you want?”
“I want everything, Paddy. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing. You stole money from my father for years, fuck knows how much, and you molested the girl who is now my wife. I hate you way too much to just kill you. So here’s how it’s gonna play out. You sign over every damn penny you have in those accounts to Sparrow, and I spare your illegitimate daughter’s life. What’s her name? Oh, yes. Tara. Sweet fucking Tara. Only nineteen, isn’t she?”
“Eighteen.” He pursed his lips, stubbing the cigarette with force into a nearby ashtray.
“Even better.” I shrugged, spinning on my heel to face him and smiling good-naturedly.
“You can’t do this,” he mumbled to himself.
“I just did.”
“And what if I won’t?” He hesitated, pressing his hand to his neck, like he was choking.
“Then I swear to God, I will kill the little bitch. But before I do, I’ll make sure every single junkie in South Boston rides her ass six ways from Sunday. And trust me, I will hunt down the kinkiest motherfuckers the city has to offer. I do my research, as you can tell.”
Paddy’s jaw ticked, and I knew he was terrified. I’d definitely hit a nerve.
When I booked the flight to Miami, I was under the impression that it was going to be another joyless kill. But then Jensen followed the money trail to Paddy’s daughter. She was living outside of Boston with her ex-stripper mom. Paddy was sending them money every month, and according to Paddy’s wife #2, it didn’t stop there. He was in contact with Tara. Phone calls, Christmas cards and all the rest. Apparently Tara didn’t know her father was a world-class douche. She was just a college freshman looking to bond with her dying no-show of a dad. Looked like a sweet enough girl, if you ignored her problematic gene pool. I never would have touched her. But Paddy thought like a psychopath, so I knew he wouldn’t put it past me to do what he would have done if he still had a chance.
“How will I know you won’t hurt her anyway?” Paddy pressed his head to the headboard, closing his eyes in frustration. He was coming to terms with this arrangement.
I wanted Sparrow to have everything this fucker had to his name, like he took everything from her when she was just a little girl. An eye for an eye.
“Why, I’ll give you my word.” I opened my arms in a friendly manner.
He stared me down and spat again into his bucket, reaching back for the oxygen mask. “Your word ain’t worth shit.”
“Then it’s a crying shame that’s all you’re going to get. Either you hand over the money to Sparrow, knowing I intend to keep my promise not to touch your girl, or you let me walk away from this place, knowing my generous deal is off the table and that I’m going to do horrible things to your kid. Your call, old man.”
The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He loved his daughter, even though he was a monster. I’d broken him. He had lost everything he’d worked for. He was going to die a poor man, leave nothing to his only family. He was going to pay his debt.
“You are worse than your father, Brennan.”
I smiled in agreement and fished out my phone. “I’ll call a lawyer and have him draw up the papers right away. And you can start by signing this Power of Attorney. Don’t worry, boyo, I brought a pen.”
SPARROW
FROM MY CAB at the end of the block, I watched Troy walking up to the Spanish-style house. Once he was out of sight, I instructed my driver to wait and slowly strolled up the sidewalk, noting his idling cab. His driver was busy with his cell phone and didn’t seem to notice me.
I eyed the stucco mailbox at the end of the driveway. Who was Troy visiting? What was so important at this house? Maybe Daisy was right. Maybe he did take his dick on a tour and was now visiting another mistress.
There was a house number on the mailbox but no name. I doubted I’d recognize the name anyway, but what the hell. I’d come this far. Trying to look casual, like I belonged, like this wasn’t illegal, I pulled open the mailbox, hoping to find a letter with a name. I got far more than I bargained for. I read the address on the first envelope, and my breath caught in my throat, and I froze.
It said “Patrick Rowan.”
Patrick Rowan. Paddy. The man who molested me.
Troy Brennan was at my molester’s house. My husband and the only person I’d ever told about my dark, awful secret.
Stupid girl.
I stumbled back from the mailbox, like a nest of snakes was inside. My heart pumped wildly against my ribcage. Maybe he’d come here to kill him. After all, everyone said he’d killed before. Maybe he would punish this vile man the way I never could.
I forced my gaze back to the house, just as a girl in a maid’s uniform hurried down the drive toward me, looking flushed and concerned. For a moment, I was afraid she was going to confront me, but instead she glanced right and left, like she was the one who was afraid. The girl made her way to a bus stop further up the street, hugging herself defensively and looking around every now and again.
When she was out of sight, I got my shit together and jogged to a spot behind a square bush. I watched the courtyard at the front of the house intently.
Twenty minutes after he arrived, Troy left the premises.
He had a stack of documents under his armpit and an easy expression. A few seconds later, a thin, frail man appeared beside him in the entry to the courtyard. He looked sick and old, nothing like the Paddy Rowan I knew and remembered, but then I saw his eyes and choked. It was him.
They shook hands and nodded at each other. I couldn’t see Troy’s face, but I heard him laugh before he walked back to his cab. He climbed right into its backseat, leaving Rowan very much alive.
I’d seen all I needed to see, and I wished I could unsee it.
The asshole was here for business. He didn’t give a damn about what this man did to me.
I threw up between the bushes, feeling the bile bubbling in my throat like poison.
I hated them. Hated them both. But I knew one thing for sure. I wasn’t going to give Troy the pleasure of knowing that I knew he was still in business with the man who molested me. Especially not after he disrespected me by having sex with someone else in our bedroom.
There was nothing I could do to get back at him, so I might as well not let him know that I was privy to his atrocious deeds.
No. I would hate my husband quietly, pretend like it never happened—and would never, ever let him touch me or get to me again.
Troy Brennan was dead to me. This time for good.